A Red Beginning
by Abigaya Moreel
Summary: The night Angela and Charlotte Jane Patricks wife and daughter were killed - through Red Johns eyes. What was really going through his head that night? Rated T for violence.


**AN: Hi all! I finally got another story up! Please read and review! Thanks and hope you all enjoy it!**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, The Mantalist doesn't belong to me, nor do any of the characters in this story :(**

* * *

**A Red Beginning**

The man silently opened the car door and stepped out onto the road, and glanced at his reflection in the car window. He was of average height and that was all that could be told from his figure, as it was shrouded in black, a black hood drawn up over a masked face. He glanced at the suburban home, it was dark outside and no lights were on inside, but he knew exactly what the house looked like. He knew where every single room lay, and he also knew where Patrick's wife and daughter were sleeping.

He reached into the car and picked up a small black backpack, then crept towards the house, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen. The man knew that no-one was around, he had checked before he had driven to the house, but he had to be absolutely certain. When he was sure that the shadows were the only things about, he walked to the front door, then kneeled down and reached a gloved hand into the small bag, drawing out a lock-picking tool. He carefully inserted it into the keyhole then twisted and jiggled it. He heard the lock _click_, and then slowly opened the door, before shutting it behind him. Reaching into his bag he put the tool away and ran his finger softly along a long, sharp blade, reminding him of the things a certain _Patrick Jane_ had said about him. That man would pay dearly for the mistake he had made...

A quick glance around told him that no-one was around, so he silently climbed the stairs to where he knew the young girl and her mother were sleeping. He paused and leant towards the door, his ear not touching the door but picking up the faint sounds of their breathing. He gloried in the thought that those breaths were numbered, and that he had the power to make them stop. _Forever._

He extended a gloved hand and twisted the doorknob, carefully pushing open the door. A king bed in the middle of the room was inhabited by a young girl with strawberry blond curls strewn across her innocent little face as well as an older version of the girl with straight dark blonde hair and a peaceful expression. The man walked towards the bed and bent down to hear the young girl's heart. It was a steady, pulsing rhythm: _Th-Thump, Th-Thump_. Leaning forward, he smelled her. She smelt like... Strawberries. A sweet, artificial scent that crept into his nose and sent shivers through his body. It was unnatural, yet intoxicating. The man assumed that the smell was some kind of children's shampoo. He reached into his backpack and pulled out his knife.

It was silver, shining in the moonlight. It had a long, sharp, sterile blade, and fit in his hand perfectly as if it was part of his arm, an extension made to fit. He reached his arm forward and touched the tip lightly to the pale slender neck, then drew it swiftly across the child's throat. She didn't make a noise, and the man listened as her heart slowed right down then stopped altogether. Her breathing stopped, and he stared at her a little longer, watching the blood drip down her neck and pool on her bed and chest.

He walked slowly around the huge bed to Angela, Patrick's wife. She had a sweet, sharp scent, perhaps lavender or another flowery perfume. This was the one he _really_ wanted to last. He touched her shoulder and gently shook her, and as she woke up he grew ready to do what he must. She opened her mouth to scream but he was ready. The man stuffed a piece of cloth in her mouth as a gag, and took her angelic face with his bloody hands. A smile grew on his masked face at the sight of her terror-filled eyes. She started to thrash but the man shook his head. "No, no... Shhhhhh... You saw what Patrick said on TV didn't you? Surely you didn't think that I would just let it go?" He laughed as her eyes widened when she realised who he was. As though she only just remembered, Angela ripped her head free of his hands to see her child lying beside her. Her body froze, then started thrashing again at the sight of her dead daughter. Tears streamed down her face and her body shook with muffled sobs. The man took his knife and slashed it above her face, enjoying the look of pure fear, then touched it to her neck and slashed the once flawless skin.

He wrapped the knife in cloth and left it in the backpack. He picked up a small paintbrush, accidentally smearing the blood of his victims on the handle, and then dipped it into the red liquid on Angela's neck. Making sure there was plenty of 'paint' on the brush, he pulled up the doona with his non-bloody hand to reveal two small, pale angelic feet. He started with her left foot and worked from pinkie to big toe, then on her right foot big toe to pinkie. By the time he was done her toenails were all painted perfectly red with her own blood.

Now for his favourite part. The paintbrush joined the knife in the bag, and the man zipped it back up. He didn't need anything else inside it tonight. A thrill ran through him as he dipped his gloved fingers into the blood pool under Angela's neck and put his fingers to the wall behind the bed. He began drawing a circle shape, starting at the top moving clockwise, leaving it disconnected at the end. Two eyes and a smiling mouth joined it, creating the man's signature; a smiley face drawn in blood. The dripping red face on the wall would be the first thing that Patrick would see when he walked into the room, and he would regret those things he said about the man. This was his punishment.

The man turned to walk out of the room, closing the door behind him. The last thing he needed to do was tucked in side his coat pocket. He reached inside and picked it up. He read it one last time before taping it on the door:

_Dear Mister Jane, _

_I don't like to be slandered in the media, especially by a dirty money-grabbing fraud._

_If you were a real psychic, instead of a dishonest little worm, you wouldn't need to open the door to see what I've done to your lovely wife and child._

He walked back down the stairs and exited the house, kicking over a pink bike on his way to the car. He opened the door, got in, and put his backpack on the passenger seat.

The man they dubbed as Red John drove away from the Jane house with a satisfied smile on his face. Soon everyone would know that this 'Red John' was NOT to be underestimated, and that this was the price.

* * *

**Thanks for reading and pretty please review!**

**Should I continue this story or leave it as a one-shot?**


End file.
